


A Surfeit Of Peroxide

by MissKate



Category: Flashpoint
Genre: Angst, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-24
Updated: 2010-09-24
Packaged: 2017-10-12 04:03:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/120538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissKate/pseuds/MissKate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam and Greg in the aftermath of "Acceptable Risk."</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Surfeit Of Peroxide

He finds Sam in the locker room, digging through the first aid kit, blood still all over his hands. Sam looks, aside from the blood, like he's about twelve years old, and when he meets Greg's eyes, he blushes, like his hand is in the cookie jar, instead of wrist deep in bandages and antibiotic creams.

"Hey, Sam," Greg sits on the bench. He's too old for Sam's boneless crouch and pretty sure the younger man wouldn't appreciate having to pull him out of any attempt to imitate. "Everything okay?"

"Peroxide."

"Sorry?"

"That lady," Sam gestures towards the door. "With SIU. She said hydrogen peroxide would get the blood off."

"Let me see," Greg holds out his hands and Sam gives him the box. Greg roots through bottles of lotions and ointments and tensor bandages and dinosaur bandaids.

No peroxide.

Sam nods when he says as much, then slumps on his knees, eyes on his fingers. There really isn't all that much blood. His fingernails are pinkish, with red on his cuticles and it's drying to brown under the tips, but it's mostly residual by now. Greg tries to smile reassuringly at Sam, who fails to smile back, but succeeds in making Greg feel like a jerk.

Greg walks Sam over to the sink and starts scrubbing his hands, the way he wishes he'd done with his son. Sam blinks wearily and raises his free hand to scrub his eyes. Greg catches it halfway.

"You'll get it all over your face," he admonishes.

Sam laughs, although it comes out more like a sob.

"Thanks, Dad."

"Don't mention it," Greg finishes, leaving Sam's left hand wrinkled, but clean, and takes the other.

"Want to talk about it?" Greg asks, looking at Sam's fingers, not his face, but not missing the younger man's shrug.

"I'm tired," he says, finally.

Greg nods, keeps scrubbing.

"You're clean now," he offers.

Sam tightens his hands back into fists and keeps them at his sides.

"Thanks."

Greg leaves, claps Sam on the shoulder and walks out. It's almost empty in the hallways and the few people here and there don't meet his eyes. He sits down in his office and starts going over the transcript.

"Boss."

He turns. Sam stands in the doorway, bag in his hands, looking small and young. He tries for a smile and succeeds.

"You," Sam looks away, shrugging. "You're a good dad."

Greg shakes his head.

"Go home, Sam."

Sam makes a face.

"I never brought my car."

And the transit stopped running an hour ago.

Hell.

Greg rubs his eyes and the letters start blurring in front of him.

"Fine," He grabs his jacket off the chair. "I'll drive you home tonight."

Sam bounces a little while he walks, that curious, confident, self-deprecating swagger that makes people think he's taller than he is. Greg has to rush to keep up, until Sam notices his trot and slows down a little.

"Long day," Sam says, in the elevator.

Greg presses the buttons for the parking garage.

"Yeah."

"I'm glad you're still here," Sam tells him.

"Me, too."


End file.
